Kuryakin's Luck
by MLaw
Summary: Illya finds himself yet again in trouble in East Germany, with no sign of his partner coming to the rescue this time. pre-saga. Warning: some intense scenes, though nothing graphic


"Come come Comrade Kuryakin do you take me for a fool?

"Comrade Pankin, I ask the same thing of you. I know all the cards you hold in your hand...I know interrogation techniques all too well. You are trying to put me at ease and make me trust you. You think I am naive enough, no….softened enough to believe that if you do something for me, I will return the favor? It is you who are naive Comrade, not me."

Pankin's face swelled with anger, turning beet red and he looked as if he were about to explode.

"You are a traitor to the Soviet Union. You have had access to delicate and vital information day after day and yet you have not shared it with us," the KGB officer spoke in a hushed, but menacing tone of voice.

"I was...am only following my GRU orders. I was not to spy on U.N.C.L.E. or the Americans. I was given to Alexander Waverly to be his agent and his alone. For that...Soviet Union was made member of the organization and would receive important intelligence in exchange for me. I have kept my word and will continue to do so."

"What did you give the Americans? What did you tell them about us?" The interrogator demanded. He grabbed Kuryakin by the throat, squeezing his fellow countryman until he couldn't breathe.

"Comrade Colonel," Captain Zukovich protested."You are killing him!"

"Bahhh!" The Colonel spat, releasing Illya as he swore.

"Your turn then Zukovich. See if you can do better," he snarled.

The young Captain stared at Kuryakin who was gasping to catch his breath. He suddenly took hold of Illya by the back of his shirt, yanking him from his chair and dragging him to a grimy utility sink in the corner of the room.

Illya staggered, trying to keep his footing but his hands were cuffed behind him, making it difficult to maintain his balance.

His eyes went wide as he saw the sink was filled with ice laden water and he knew what was coming; Illya took a deep breath as Zukovich violently shoved his blond head beneath the water.

The Captain pushed him deeper, forcing the air to bubble out of Kuryakin's lungs as he struggled. Zukovich held him down, longer… and longer until Illya ran out of air and squirmed in desperation; panicking as he felt he was beginning to drown.

It was then he was yanked out, leaving the U.N.C.L.E. agent gasping for air. Again and again it happened; Pankin screaming his questions that Illya no longer heard.

Do it again!" The Colonel bellowed.

"But Comrade it will kill…"

"I do not care, do it!"

"I respectfully decline Comrade Colonel." Zukovich finally let Kuryakin fall to the cold concrete floor, fighting to pull air into his lungs as he shook. "What good is he to us if he is dead?"

Pankin lifted the agent, shoving him back into the chair beside the grey metal table.

The Colonel would let Zukovich's transgression pass for the moment, as he was a new assistant, but still his boldness would not go unpunished.

"Comrade-Captain Zukovich, we will discuss your impertinence later." He returned his attention to Kuryakin.

There was now a piece of paper and a pen waiting on the table, to which the senior officer pointed.

"Sign it Comrade and you can end it all. No more torture, no more hounding you across the world. It will be over… You want that, do you not; to be left alone?" His voice was soft, almost alluring...

Illya looked across the table with swollen blue eyes no longer filled with venom; they now seemed dull and lifeless. He reached out his hand, grasping the pen with trembling fingers and began to write.

Colonel Maxim Pankin grinned with triumph and snatched the paper from Kuryakin's hand, but looking at it ...his perceived victory disappeared in the blink of an eye forcing him to howl in anger.

Illya had not written his signature, but something else, something rather rude.

"_Пошел на хуй! (fuck you!)_

The Colonel backhanded Kuryakin so hard that it sent the smaller man hurtling to the hard floor.

"I have had enough of your belligerence Comrade Kuryakin! Take him outside! We will bring an end to this once and for all."

Zukovich lifted Illya from the floor, cradling him close with a surprisingly gentle touch, helping him to his feet as they left the interrogation room.

The men exited to a small outdoor courtyard and there Kuryakin was lowered to a simple wooden chair.

"It is time to die, Illya Nickovich," Maxim leaned over, whispering in his ear. "You will no longer be an embarrassment to the Soviet people."

"Here Zukovich, I give you the honors," the Colonel handed his subordinate his Makarov. "Have you ever killed a man in cold blood Comrade?"

Illya barely glanced the man's way, his eyes welling up as the sun momentarily blinded him. It seemed rather incongruous...there were birds happily chirping. It was a beautiful day, perhaps a good day to die, he thought.

His eyes met those of Zukovich as he looked at the man for the first time...and suddenly smiled. Illya let out a near maniacal laugh as he heard the slide on the pistol being quickly pulled back and cocked.

The dark-haired Zukovich raised his arm, pointing the pistol to the side of Kuryakin's head, but in one swift motion he shifted position, aiming it at the Colonel and firing one deadly shot directly into his forehead.

There was perhaps a split second of realization on Pankin's part, but that was it… a wide-eyed look of dismay was the last thing he's done in this world until his body fell backwards, hitting the ground with a muffled thump.

"You okay tovarisch?" Zukovich asked, as he freed Kuryakin of the handcuffs.

"Better now… I wish you had made your presence known to me sooner Napoleon. It would have been nice to assuage that feeling of panic that nearly drowning to death was causing me."

"Hey, you just wouldn't look at me and I couldn't make my presence obvious to Pankin now could I? Think of it as payback for what you had to do to me during the Gurnius Affair. Now, speaking of which, I need you to put on the Colonel's uniform."

Illya stumbled as he rose, falling into the waiting arms of his American partner. "Gee thanks. I guess as you Americans say...payback is bitch." Illya's Russian accent always seemed to be more prominent when he was stressed.

"Trust me pal if I could have had it any other way without showing my hand, I would have done it."

"These are not going to fit very well." Illya said, grasping the trousers as Solo handed them to him.

"Since when have you worried about that chum. Now let's get moving before someone else shows up."

After stripping Pankin and getting Illya dressed, Solo shoved the corpse into a black body bag that had been left on the ground. Hiding Pankin there would give them more time.

Napoleon watched in amazement as Illya assumed his role, squaring his shoulders and taking on the haughty air of an officer in charge, even though he was as weak as a newborn. He settled the Colonel's hat on his head, keeping the brim low to cover his puffy, bloodshot eyes.

Together they left the building; the guards snapping to attention as the agents walked past. The soldiers were completely unaware of who they really were and simply saw two superior officers.

Once out to the cobblestoned streets outside the STASI compound, Napoleon discreetly pulled his communicator, signalling an awaiting car to come to their aid.

A green Volkswagen van with bright orange curtains draping across the side windows slowly rounded the corner. A man dressed in non-descript clothes wearing a tattered corduroy hat pulled the vehicle to a stop and exited; opening the side door for the men to enter.

Napoleon shoved Illya inside, quickly getting into the van and pulling the door closed after himself.

Once the driver was again behind the wheel, Solo spoke.

"Mark this isn't very inconspicuous."

"Hey it's the best I could do guv. If we hadn't ditched our sedan; that would have done nicely.

"It was stolen if you recall?" Napoleon said.

"And so is this, now settle in mates as we need to be off before your ruse has been discovered," the British agent said, putting his foot on the accelerator. The vehicle pulled away at a leisurely speed so as to not draw undue attention, well... any more attention other than its color.

Illya slumped over, leaning against his partner's shoulder, too tired to speak.

The drive to their rendezvous point was a quiet one until Slate finally broke the ice. "Cor mate, you were the right lucky one this time."

Kuryakin opened his eyes, still red and watering from his ordeal. "No I am not the lucky one...Napoleon is."

"No mate, I think he's your luck and you just don't realize it."

Illya nodded slightly, and smiled. "Perhaps you are right," he admitted before passing out at last from sheer exhaustion.

Kuryakin was transferred into an awaiting ambulance not far from the border; his face lightly wrapped in bandages and his clothing changed to a hospital gown to hide his identity from prying eyes. The travel documents indicated he was the son of a high-ranking party official being taken to hospital in West Berlin for a delicate operation and of course the best surgeon for this was in the West…

Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the vehicle pass through the checkpoints and finally the Brandenburg Gate without issue. Illya was in good hands with Slate and an U.N.C.L.E. physician at his side.

Solo took his time, getting out his travel documents as he too passed the checkpoints without incident. His cover as as a low-level American diplomat let him easily pass.

Once to the other side, he was met by another car and whisked off to headquarters; pulling his communicator along the way.

"Open Channel D-overseas relay. Mr. Waverly."

"Mr. Solo...success?"

"Yes sir. He's on his way to Medical as we speak."

"His condition?"

"He'll survive. Mr. Kuryakin is a bit beat up and tired but I've seen him in worse condition sir."

"How did he comport himself?"

"Like a pro, as always."

"Very good. A job well done Mr. Solo. You may take a few days off there and hopefully Mr. Kuryakin will be well enough to travel back with you to New York for his debrief. Waverly out."

No surprise there; the boss was always about business, pretty cut and dried. Napoleon exited the car as it came to a stop inside the secure garage at headquarters. He supposed it was going to be a long night, but knowing Illya; he'd be his usual obstinate self by tomorrow. Maybe he'd hint for his Russian buddy to just sit back, relax and be patient for once.

.

Alexander Waverly closed the file sitting in front of him on his desk. It was his Russian agent's private dossier.

He felt a sense of relief that his prized Soviet agent was indeed still his, or rather U.N.C.L.E.'s, and hadn't succumbed at the hands of his former comrades. It had been Solo's task to either rescue his partner or .eliminate him if Kuryakin had indeed been broken. Somehow Waverly knew Napoleon would come through with flying colors and save the Russian...he always managed to do so.

Still the possibility that his number one agent might have to dispose of his partner...a man he considered his friend, was a difficult cross to bear. This friendship thing would have to be addressed upon his agents return. Perhaps it was time to separate...no, the Old Man dismissed that thought; they were the best of the best and worked like a well-oiled machine. Why fix something when it wasn't broken?

If Illya had signed the confession admitting he was indeed a traitor to the motherland, and complicit; it would have had a rippling effect throughout U.N.C.L.E. No doubt his captors would demand Kuryakin reaffirm his loyalty to the motherland as well as to Communism.

Foreign operatives would have a shadow of doubt cast over them, trust would dissipate. People would begin to wonder who was indeed loyal and who might be a double-agent.

Anyone who'd had dealings with the Russian would question if he'd taken them for a fool, and weaseled information from them under the guise of being trustworthy. Illya was already on unsteady ground with some of his fellow operatives who were leery of a Soviet agent, given the tensions of the Cold War.

Waverly sighed, closing the file to be put away in his private records, and that gave him a sense of deep satisfaction. He'd had this man thrust upon him as a peace offering from the Kremlin...a sacrificial lamb in their eyes, as it were, but Illya Kuryakin proved them wrong, being far from that.*

He smiled, remembering the instant affinity he felt for the shaggy-haired young man. How thin the lad was when he first came to the organization; so determined that it was almost frightening to see that sort of intensity in one so young...Kuryakin had been what, in his early twenties?

Yet Alexander Waverly found Illya to be a survivor time and again, and loyal to the Command. The CCO of U.N.C.L.E. Northwest smiled, glad he'd chosen to accept young Kuryakin into the fold, and now to still have him back, safe again.

It was time to make a telephone call to General Niko Vladimirovich, still the head of the Directorate for the GRU. He was the man who first offered the young agent to him...thinking they were getting rid of an unseasoned greenhorn, and one who would meet an untimely end early in his career. * Kuryakin however, did not oblige them.

This nonsense with the KGB had to come to an end, though deep down Waverly suspected it would not. Still it was appropriate to voice his displeasure and concern at his agent's mistreatment at the hands of his fellow countrymen. That however, could wait for the moment.

Alexander Waverly reached for his intercom.

"Miss Rogers, a pot of tea please?"

"Yes sir. What's your pleasure?" She asked.

"Surprise me."

"Yes sir," Lisa answered, sensing her boss's mood had changed for the better, as he'd been a bit stressed as of late.

Lisa Rogers was one of the few people who could truly discern that as the Old Man put up a good front and a protective wall around himself to most everyone else.

"A nice Hawthorne perhaps?" She asked.

"Young lady, you can read me all too well. Yes thank you; I could do with some relaxation my dear."

"Right away sir."

.

* ref "First Kill: s/6758034/1/First-Kill


End file.
